


Der Lügner - The Liar

by peacepunch123 (lilliecase)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, No Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - World War II, Asshole North Italy Alert, Can be read independent of fandom, Deviates From Canon, Graphic Description, Holocaust, Insanity, M/M, Nazis, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Physical Abuse, Slurs, Smoking, Violence, WIP, WWII, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-09 12:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11105061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilliecase/pseuds/peacepunch123
Summary: Felice Esposito, the new Italian consul, has just arrived in Munich on a rainy day in 1940. He anticipated to have a safe, boring job so that he could keep his head low during the war, but things quickly became far more complicated.The atmosphere of the whole city is tense, his mental state is slowly deteriorating, and a certain German soldier has led him to question everything that he once firmly believed.It will be a battle until the end. What does Felice value more: his life or his morals?





	1. Preparation

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story for over two years now, and it's my first time sharing it anywhere. :~) I have a bad habit of going back to edit/rewrite all the time, so check back often to see if things have changed. 
> 
> I have about 6 chapters already written and will post them as soon as I'm done with editing them (for the 10th time, and certainly not the last).
> 
> Comments/critiques, shares, and kudos are so greatly appreciated, it motivates me to make the best work that I can. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> UPDATE (4/24): I fully intend on seeing this piece through, all the way to the end! School is keeping me busy, but once I get to the summer, expect to see... well, progress! :-)
> 
> UPDATE (7/11): I'm off to college in next month (exciting stuff!). I really do love this story, but I'm going to be transparent -- I need a bit of external motivation to continue it and see it through. If I can be self-sufficient? Expect new content, either with this story or the sister story, L'Amant.

* * *

  

He straightened his tie.

His reflection was no sight for even the sorest of eyes. Felice looked exactly how he felt: tired. He studied his features intently, as if they weren’t his own. Relaxed lips, tilted into a frown, a blank expression etched out of stone, and an icy glint to a pair of dark eyes.

The trip over hadn’t exactly been a luxurious one, and his arrival in the city center was equally as disappointing. It was a lousy day outside. Everything around him appeared to reflect that mood of gloom. The mirror he stared into was grimy—the Germans would never bother to put him up in well-kept places; they always reserved those for their own politicians—but upon closer investigation, Felice realized that it wasn’t just the mirror. _He_ was filthy. He must not have washed in at least a week. Hours of endless train rides and transfers and meeting new people  himself along the way in the typical, trite, “hello-how-do-you-do” sort of fashion had drained him both emotionally and physically. If he’d had the option, he would have gladly lay down upon the hotel’s pathetic excuse for a mattress and slept until spring.

But he didn’t have the option. He had business to attend to.

One quick glance—he really should have gotten a haircut before he left, but there was no use in mourning over his own negligence—and Felice snatched his briefcase off the armchair. He put extra effort into making sure his valuables were tucked away; he didn’t want any of the help getting their grubby fingers on his belongings. He gave a curt nod to the receptionist, handing him the keys to his room, and walked outside. The group he was supposed to meet had already assembled, and they appeared rather impatient.

“Mr. Esposito!” A dark-haired man waved his arm in the air and strode toward him. The man walked strangely, taking a strong step with his left leg and a skip with his right. It was a queer, hopping limp, but it didn’t seem to impact how the man held himself.

Everything else about him was absolutely average. He was neither too short nor too tall, neither too skinny nor too fat, and neither too handsome nor too ugly. Felice couldn’t help but notice that he was perfectly forgettable. The man spoke pointedly at him in Italian. “You are Mr. Esposito, correct? Yes, it must be you, since no one else is staying in a damn hotel in the middle of a war. Where the hell have you been?”

“My room,” he replied. Anyone _intelligent_ would have deduced that much; this man _must_ have not been very intelligent. No, of course not—he spoke Italian, but he was clearly still a German. His accent was a dead give-away. Sarcastically, Felice added, “And it’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

“Your room? We were supposed to meet here twenty minutes ago. You’re twenty minutes late.”

“Where I come from, twenty minutes late is ten minutes early.” His voice dripped with apathy and just a twinge of disgust. The other man seemed a bit taken aback at the nature of his reply. Exactly the reaction that he was looking to elicit. Felice adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and gave a cursory glance at his watch. “You know, you really should be thanking me.”

“ _T_ _hanking you?_  Do you know the trouble it cost us to—” This man was cut off by another stranger, this one speaking in German. Felice hadn’t bothered to learn the language before and wasn’t going to bother himself about it now. Italian was more than means enough for communication in his profession. There was always someone there to translate. Although he spoke a bit of English, he considered it a strictly last resort option—the sort of thing you’d whip out only if some man had his finger over the trigger, barrel pointed at you—and not a moment before.

He figured that these men were instructed to show him around the facility and speak with him about the nature of his work, and the Italian-speaking bloke was supposed to be the interpreter. At least he wouldn’t be speaking English any time soon, unless one of the men decided to pull out a gun.

The stranger returned his attention to Felice, making an apparent effort to control his frustration and be more professional. “My name is Erwin. These men are Georg, Rüdiger, and Wolfram. Let’s get moving, please. We don’t have any time to waste.”

They set off at a brusque pace, hurrying down the street. Felice begrudgingly remained at the interpreter’s side, and he took his first real look around Munich.

Everything was rather neat and tidy; everything looked picture-perfect, from the buildings all the way down to the birds. Surprisingly to Felice, it was nothing like Florence or Turin or Milan or even Rome. Those cities all felt cozy. They were very different, of course, but they all had the same _feeling,_ more or less. It was that certain Mediterranean warmness that Munich lacked, and Felice hadn’t realized it until just now.

But that wasn’t it. There was more to it than just a feeling. He tried to pinpoint exactly why this city was making him feel on edge.

He took in every little detail—the ways that the streets were arranged in perfect, straight lines, the ways that the red flags flapped in the wind, the way that the people spoke in hushed tones, the way that soldiers seemed to be on every block—but nothing seemed terribly out of place. One might assume that Munich was just a quiet, cautious city. For a moment, Felice forgot that he was in the middle of a war. He couldn’t name a single thing wrong with this city, and it made him deeply uncomfortable.

His trance, however, was broken when a pair of children bolted past on the other side of the street. The two of them wore rags and didn’t have shoes and had dirt-stained skin, and they laughed and spoke loudly, louder than anyone else on the street. They weren’t speaking any sort of language that Felice could discern. As they ran past, people looked at them scornfully and shook their heads and muttered under their breath. He watched them as they were stopped quite suddenly by an officer, who bore an expression of pure disgust, as if he were looking at a pair of dead rats, and not a pair of children...

He turned his head away sharply. He looked straight ahead at the endless rows of grey stone buildings and forced his thoughts elsewhere. He couldn’t care less about the fate of two Gypsy children. It was none of his business, not his responsibility. Let the government or the military do with them what they saw fit; Felice had more important things to take care of—like figuring out just _what_ was the matter with this city.

And quite suddenly, he had understood what it was.

In every way possible, Munich was cold. The sky was cold, the sidewalks were cold, the people passing by were cold, cold, _cold_. They were in the middle of a war, but the people who wandered the streets were going about their normal, daily lives, with bikes and cars and suits and ties. It was unnatural; the people here should have been impacted, just like they were in Italy. All around the world, there were rationing programs regarding nearly every consumable product; women and children were hungry and suffering; the populace had every reason to act a bit out of the ordinary, but that wasn’t the case. What Felice saw was cold and prideful, and the normality that everything wore felt forced.

Except for the sounds of nature, it was quiet on the street. Their perfectly polished, politician shoes echoed nicely against the cobblestones. Their breath froze on their lips and floated away. The clouds overhead obscured the reach of the sun and ambled across the sky at a snail’s pace. A storm appeared to be festering and boiling in the distance.

He pulled his gloves out from his coat pocket and tugged them on. Bad weather wasn’t something that he was very accustomed to. Back in Florence, the weather was always palatable, if not perfect. This weather made his skin crawl and itch.

Felice cleared his throat, not because he particularly needed to, but rather because he wanted to be acknowledged. The interpreter glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and went back to staring straight ahead.

He cleared his throat again, more dramatically this time. The interpreter said nothing.

Felice didn’t understand Germans and their complex social patterns. He gave up on being subtle and spoke first. “Erwin, you say?”

“May I help you with something?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just trying to be friendly and strike up a conversation, that’s all.” His voice, as was typical when he was working, was sharp and critical. If Erwin was still offended by his attitude, he didn’t make it known.

“Spare me your formalities, please. We’ll both be much happier without them.”

A lull. A careful, intentional moment, then two. The cold wind bit at the tips of his ears and nose.

Felice spoke once more, despite Erwin’s request. “How did you learn Italian?”

“I thought that you were going to spare me from this.”

“Oh, _no_ , this isn’t etiquette. I’m genuinely interested. I don’t know very many Germans who speak Italian.”

“I have a feeling that you don’t know very many Germans in general.”

“Well, of course I do. What kind of a consul general would I be if I didn’t?” Felice counted on his fingers, a childish, self-satisfied smirk forming on his lips. “There’s Herr Göring, Herr Himmler, Herr Heydrich, Herr Goebbels—oh, and I _almost_ forgot about the man in charge, a certain Mr. Adolf—”

“Oh, be quiet! You understand what I was trying to say.”

He chuckled, enjoying the irritation he was causing the poor man. “But that isn’t what you _said_ , is it?”

The interpreter answered curtly. “My mother is from Sicily. She taught it to me. Are you satisfied?”

“Sicily? Oh, dear Lord, no wonder your pronunciation and accent are garbage.”

“What’s the matter with Sicily?”

“Nothing, nothing. At least you aren’t Neapolitan, that’s all I have to say.”

Erwin squinted his eyes at Felice, who was staring down the street. They had to have been nearly there. After all, they’d been walking for quite some time, and if he had to walk for much longer, he simply wouldn’t be able to make it. He’d have to give up and demand a cab or for Erwin to carry him the rest of the way.

Fog was starting to settle over the street and sidewalk like a ghostly blanket. The Italian brushed off the condensation that had started to form on his overcoat.

“Have you got something against southerners?”

He shrugged. “Don’t we all?”

“Mr. Esposito, I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest, but I don’t quite care for the tone of your—”

“Look! We’re here! Oh, _finally_ … I don’t think that I could have made it much farther.”

The Italian consulate in Munich was a normal enough building, but Felice picked up immediately on some strange details. The rest of the town radiated a feeling of German pride that this structure very obviously lacked. Although Munich was quite old, it was well maintained, polished, and preserved; it looked as nice as a city possibly could during a time of global warfare. This poor building, on the other hand, seemed as if it were crumbling—as if when one touched a certain brick the wrong way, the whole wall would collapse. The consulate was in the city’s center, but the entire block was deserted—not a person in sight. Up the street, Felice could just barely make out another building and a large sign that stated “ _Britisches Generalkonsulat - British Consulate General_ ”. It seemed as if they were in the midst of a dead zone in this apparently perfect city.

They passed through the front gate. He felt as if he had entered a cage, one made from old stones and old trees and old, ornate fences. The consulate was surrounded on all sides, perhaps strategically, and from where he stood, Felice could no longer see the street. To his right was a small monument. He brushed some fallen leaves and rotting twigs off of it, and it read in bronze, embossed letters, “ _Italienisches Generalkonsulat - Consolato Generale d’Italia - Italian Consulate General.”_

He frowned. “How is anyone supposed to know where—or what, for that matter—this place is? The sign is hidden, for Christ’s sake. You’d have to stumble through the gates on accident in order to find out what it is.”

Erwin offered a shrug. “It’s done its job. We haven’t had many complaints.”

“Well, _I’m_ complaining. How are Italian citizens supposed to be able to—”

The interpreter laughed, despite his apparent effort to conceal it. Felice shot him a glare. “What’s so funny about that?”

“You’ve clearly had your head in the clouds for the past few years, Mr. Esposito _._ There are no Italians coming to Munich anymore. And the few who live here are too busy with the war to worry about their passports.”

“Oh.” He felt his face flush red, despite the cold. No Italian citizens? Admittedly, the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. Some wealthy Germans still lived in large Italian cities despite the war (or perhaps even _because_ of the war), so he’d assumed it would work the other way around as well. Apparently not. Apparently, wealthy Italians preferred to escape to neighboring countries that weren’t so involved in global politics. He didn’t blame them. “Well—still, it’s too hidden. I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to work here, Mr. Esposito.”

“Quit calling me that. And quit saying my name after every sentence.”

“Please, allow me to hold the door for you, Mr. Esposito.”

“Oh, _vai a cagare_ _._ ”

 

The consulate was slightly nicer on the inside. That was the best compliment that Felice, who was a man of very high standards, could give it. The crumbling, ancient masonry had been covered up by simple carpets and cheap recreations of Renaissance paintings. Felice noticed something all of a sudden—the consulate wouldn’t be as unappealing as it was, if only it weren’t so dark.

There were the windows, but they weren’t providing much light because of the foul weather. There were no overhead lights or wall outlets or any electricity of any sort, so it seemed. The place seemed very limited on illumination. One of the other men in their vicinity must have seen the newfound concern in Felice’s expression, because he began speaking in German and looking directly at the consul. Felice blinked, and with a blank face, turned to Erwin expectantly.

“He said that it’s much brighter inside when the weather is better.”

“Is there no electricity here?”

Erwin exchanged a few words with the men before offering an answer. “There are no built-in lighting fixtures. You’ll have to make do with lamps and candles.”

“Candles?” He scoffed, as if the very _notion_ of living without the electric light was unbearable. “My apologies, I thought I was in Munich, not Warsaw.”

The interpreter ignored his remark. Instead, Erwin continued to walk around the facility, expecting Felice to follow. There wasn’t very much to see; the only places he cared to remember were the office where he would be working (which was supplied and furnished to his reluctant satisfaction), the main desks where people were assisted, and two other miscellaneous rooms. Felice was a bit disappointed in that moment that he hadn’t become an ambassador—if he had, he could have lived at the much nicer embassy in Berlin and not have been put up in some low-rate hotel.

When their little tour came to an end, Felice sunk into the nearest seat, letting his briefcase fall to the ground. He gazed at Erwin with a tired expression and ran his fingers through his hair. “When does the consulate open today?”

“We’re closed until tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“We haven’t been open for the past week. It’s a bit difficult to run a Consulate General without a consul.”

“Ah. Right. So it is.”

“Are you usually this forgetful, Mr. Esposito?”

He crossed his arms and turned up his nose. The truth was yes, he was a naturally forgetful person—especially with all of the new change going on in his life at the moment—but he didn’t particularly need others latching onto his insufficiencies. “If I don’t have any _actual_ work to do for the day, I’m going to finish some paperwork.”

“You mean the paperwork that you forgot to do before?”

Felice glared at Erwin. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He stood up, collected his belongings, and sauntered off. His footsteps, the only sound in the slumbering building, echoed down the hallway.

He stopped. His hand wavered over the door handle. Felice bit his lip pensively and cast a reluctant glance at Erwin, who was shamelessly and carefully watching his every movement. “We’re having dinner tonight. You, me, and those gentlemen, I assume—most likely others.”

“That is correct.”

“Formal attire.”

“Two in a row. You’re doing quite well, Mr. Esposito.”

He didn’t want to ask, but eventually the question tumbled out. “Dinner is at twenty?”

Erwin’s lips morphed into a grin—warm and good natured, despite Felice’s recent behavior towards him—but it repulsed the consul nonetheless. “It’s at eighteen. Germans like to dine early. Please try to be on time. The car will pick you up outside your hotel.”

And with that, Felice slammed his office door shut. After a bit of fumbling around and fiddling with an oil lamp, he turned on the radio, spread the contents of his briefcase out on his desk, and began the paperwork that he had long forgotten to do.

 

Whatever trace of sun there was that day had nearly set by the time he had finished. It was by this dying light that he explored the property. The consulate was hidden by trees in the front and on the sides, but in the back, there was a small yard. It proved unexciting. The lawn was mostly weeds and rotting grass. He walked to the fence and looked through the metal bars.

Just outside the consulate was a wide, empty field. He imagined that at one point they might have been parks, but not anymore. No one in their right mind would go to a park during the war—at least, no Italian would. But Felice didn’t have much else to do.

He found the back gate and scratched his palms on the rusty lock while trying to wrestle it open. With a concerted effort, Felice had opened the gate. He stepped forward cautiously. The grass out here was so very different, although it was only meters away from the consulate’s; it was wet and alive.

He spent some time exploring the open area. The field was covered in wildflowers and clover and was about a square kilometer in total. Its boundaries were marked by another fence, a simple wooden one. Behind it, right across from the consulate, was an old well.

Felice stood right before the fence, and the fence stood back, directly in his way. And yet it felt like more than that—to Felice, this was his side of the world, the place where he would be safe, so long as he listened and didn’t stand out and didn’t cause any trouble. The other side of that fence, well… It was a different world altogether. One that he was unfamiliar with and afraid of. If he made one wrong move out there, outside of the privacy of his office, outside of this field, they’d have his head on a stick—perhaps literally. The stakes were rather high for Felice.

He followed the fence for a while, keeping it on his left side. His fingertips danced over the splintered and weathered wood, using it for stability as his eyes and his mind wandered. The setting sun painted a grim picture against the storm clouds, and rain threatened to pour down at any moment. He’d have to hurry back if he didn’t want to get soaked before his dinner.

Felice turned around, now keeping the fence on his right, and walked until he saw the well once more. He hesitated. Did people in Munich still use that well? Were there actually people in a modern city like this who needed to fetch their water with a pail daily? He looked down at his feet. His dress shoes were covered in grass and mud. Felice felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to know—did the well work? Did people still drink their water from a well in Munich? If they did, what sort of people used it? Everyone in town? The Communists? The Gypsies? The Jews?

Impulsively, he kept his eyes glued to the well and stepped on the bottom rung of the fence. It was a bit weak, but it seemed sturdy enough.

He swung his leg around—

_“Du da drüben! Halt!”_

—and he lost his footing, tumbled backwards into his side of the world, and landed on the ground with a hollow _thud._

The sky had moved past him in a sudden blur and then slowly settled. He groaned, blinked hard, and rolled over onto his stomach. An unusual sight on the other side of the fence met him eye-to-eye. A pair of military boots, attached to two legs, a torso, two arms, and a…

Felice pushed himself to his knees, raising his gaze to the man’s face. Was this the first German soldier he’d ever encountered? Now that he thought of it, he’d only spoken to German politicians—no, he’d _had_ to have met a soldier before. Right? If that was the case, then why was Felice stunned—breathless? Why did he feel so powerless and helpless under this stranger’s analytical gaze? Were all Nazi soldiers this… Intimidating? Forceful? Frightening?

The soldier’s eyes were the most brilliant, stunning blue, and they pierced Felice to his core. It was almost as if this stranger could see past everything Felice had built up when the war came around—it was almost as if this man was looking at who he really was: not the passionate fascist, but the compassionate human…

The words poured out of his mouth in a nervous torrent, but in a broken mixture of Italian and English. “ _Ho fatto qualcosa di sbagliato?_ I’m very sorry, sir. _Mi dispiace molto._ You are very intimidating, sir. _Io lavoro qui. Io sono il console italiano._ Please, I’m late for dinner—”

The man held his hands up, a signal that was meant to be reassuring, but did not quite have the intended effect. His eyes still made Felice’s soul writhe. His expression was blank; everything, _everything_ was held in his burning eyes. They paused for a moment—completely frozen, two strangers from two different worlds—before the man spoke. He was clearly a native German, the way his words were accented. But he spoke in English. Something that Felice could manage, at the very least, even if he hated using it.

“I do not speak Italian… Could you say it again in English, please?”

Felice swallowed. His voice was how a man’s _should_ sound. It was deep and rough and firm, and yet there was something about his voice that was almost comforting. _Almost_ , but not quite.

“I have forgotten what I said. I apologize.” The poor Italian must have sounded like a mouse or a songbird, in comparison.

“No need.”

Their words fell to the grass below. A gust of wind swept them away, along with the wildflowers and Felice’s bedraggled brown hair. The soldier’s hair, on the other hand, was blonde and slicked back. Even if he wasn’t wearing a uniform, this man would look like a soldier. He spoke first.

“You think I am intimidating?”

Felice wanted to stand up but found himself unable to command his legs. It was a miracle that he still had control over his voice. “Only—only a little… But that is because I am only looking at you. I do not know if you really are an intimidating person, but right now, eh…” He squirmed the slightest bit under the man’s unyielding gaze. He dug a finger under his collar, adjusting it nervously. “You watch me closely.”

The German nodded. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated for a moment, seemingly picking his words carefully, concisely. “I have never met an Italian before who could speak English.”

“There are some. But they are mostly professors, not politicians.” Felice tried to maintain respectful eye contact but found it to be too much of a challenge. His eyes darted from the soldier’s boots, to his face, to the well, and back again. “Nor are they soldiers,” he added as an afterthought.

“You are a learned man?”

“I am the new consul.”

“Consul?” The soldier seemed surprised. It was the first emotion Felice had seen painted on his face. The expression looked strange on him, as if he wasn’t used to showing his feelings, or as if he wasn’t used to being surprised, or both. “ _You_ are the new consul?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well… The last consul, he was—quite the interesting man…” He appeared to be uncomfortable. Again, foreign on his face.

“Have you met him?”

“Not exactly…”

Felice frowned. “I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”

“Do you not know?”

“Know what?”

The soldier glanced at the clouds, adjusted his uniform, and then rested his gaze firmly back on the other. He was having apparent difficulty speaking about this topic. His voice came out steelier and colder than before, a difference which frightened Felice. “The last Italian consul general was a traitor. He exchanged classified information with Communists. I was placed in command of the public execution.”

“I see.” He felt chills shoot up from the base of his spine to the top of his neck. It felt impossible to breathe normally, as if all of the air around him had been taken away. Why had no one bothered to tell him this? He knew the job was serious, important even, but— _execution?_ That was a bit harsh, even for a traitor, right? What sort of information had he given away? His gaze fell to his own hands. They were fragile; they were soft and smooth. They weren’t calloused, and they certainly weren’t accustomed to hard work. Was he doomed to follow the footsteps of the consul before him? Were his hands those of a traitor?

His voice was strained by his irrational fears. “No. I did not know that.”

“My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you.”

“I’m not frightened. I knew what the job could mean when I accepted it.”

The German appeared as if he had more to say. But the time was passing quickly (Felice could tell by the sun, or the lack thereof), and at this rate, he was almost certainly going late for his engagement. The consul stood up and brushed himself off; the soldier took a step back. He was taller than Felice by at least ten centimeters—and Felice was not a particularly short man.

“My name is Felice.”

“Ludwig.”

They shook hands. Ludwig was a confident man; he could tell it by his composure and by the way he took Felice’s hand.

Felice glanced at the patches and pins adorning the other’s uniform. “You are a… Sergeant?”

“Yes. I fight on the front lines. But they needed someone to train the recruits, and so they chose me. I am here for six weeks.”

“And then what?”

“And then they will send me back to the front, if they wish. Or if they like the job that I do, they may keep me here to train.”

“Where do your men train?”

“Right here, on these fields.” Ludwig seemed almost excited at the mention of his men and his responsibilities. It was unlike anything Felice had ever seen in a person before. “And there is a place in the city where they stay. When the war started, we didn’t have much space, so we converted old buildings into barracks. Every morning, we march through the streets to the fields here to practice. And then, once we are done, we march back.”

“Where are your men now?”  
  
“Resting. It is Sunday.”

“Then why are you here?”  
  
The soldier hesitated a moment. “I was looking for the new consul.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was going to… No, nevermind.”

“Going to what?” He tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow, his eyes catching the last dying rays of the sleepy sun. “Please, tell me.”

Ludwig’s eyes fell to his heavy, military-grade boots; Felice’s eyes remained on the other’s expression, which was shifting into one of what appeared to be embarrassment. “I was going to welcome him, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“And—I was going to warn him not to make the same mistake, but… “ Felice caught Ludwig’s intense gaze once again, but this time, it felt different. It wasn’t the discomfort and the heat of what it was before. This look—these words—made Felice feel as if there were a dagger sticking out of his ribcage. “You seem like a smart man, Felice. I do not need to warn you, correct?”

He nodded slowly. “Correct.”

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, it felt as if he was making some sort of promise that he would not be able to keep.

Ludwig seemed to relax a bit, more at ease now that the issue on his mind was taken care of. Hints of what could have been a smile were visible in his expression. The change in his temperament would have been more welcome if Felice hadn’t been plagued by that terrible feeling. “I believe you mentioned that you were late for dinner?”

His spirits sank even lower. “Shit, you’re right.” He glanced at his watch. “At this point, I am already late. I suppose being even more late would not matter much very much, right?”  
  
The soldier frowned. “You do not wish to be on time?”

“I do not wish to go at all. It is a dinner for business, not leisure.”

“Ah, of course. Well then… You shouldn’t keep them waiting. Germans generally like to stick to the rules. Politicians especially.”

“I’ve already learned that the hard way.” At Ludwig’s quizzical expression, he added with a placating hand gesture, “A story for another day.”

“There will be another day, then?”

Felice paused. The thought hadn’t occurred to him that this moment was just a friendly exchange of words and not a formal conversation. It was more or less an accident, and it would most likely not happen again unless they intended it to. He had assumed right away that they would be seeing more of each other, and, well—why shouldn’t they? He enjoyed the soldier’s company; he was easily the most interesting and amicable man he had spoken to since he arrived in Munich. It seemed as if Ludwig was enjoying Felice’s company as well. He nodded and offered a weak smile. “Yes, there will be another day.” A pause, a moment of hesitation, of nervous energy, of excitement, before he spoke once more. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Tomorrow. At noon.”

“Your men won’t be training?”

“They have ninety minutes for lunch and free time.”

“Alright.” He looked at Ludwig long and hard. Most people were easy to figure out after a moment or two, but Ludwig had the sort of depth that Felice looked for in a friend. He seemed as if he’d be the hardened, military type of man, but even if he was a bit stiff, Ludwig was far more than just a soldier. He was caring enough to speak to Felice, to warn him kindly not to give away information, and to be genuinely interested in what was being said.

“Until tomorrow,” Felice said.

“Until then.”

And without a word more, they parted ways. Felice hurried down the field, and once he reached the metal fence of the consulate, he shut the gate behind him.

He wouldn’t have any time to change into something more formal—that was alright, his current suit would do well enough—but he was already about twenty minutes late. The storm bubbled overhead and dripped, dripped, dripped onto the dead grass and his leather shoes and the empty field behind him. Felice only glanced over his shoulder twice as he left the consulate. He saw Ludwig standing at the wooden fence, a world away from him, and he watched as the soldier faded away into the fog and mist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>    
>  _Vai a cagare_ \- Italian. Fuck off, get lost. Literally “go to shit”. This phrase is less commonplace than _“vaffanculo”_ in popular culture, but more traditionally Northern.
> 
> _Du da drüben_ \- German. You there!
> 
> _Halt_ \- German. Stop, halt. 
> 
> _Ho fatto qualcosa di sbagliato?_ \- Italian. Did I do something wrong? 
> 
> _Mi dispiace molto_ \- Italian. I’m very sorry. 
> 
> _Io lavoro qui. Io sono il console italiano._ \- Italian. I work here. I’m the Italian consul.


	2. Conversation

* * *

 

The dinner was just as tedious as he had imagined it would be. After getting scolded by Erwin for delaying the taxi, Felice had spent the evening playing the socialite—chatting up politicians with his interpreter, eating, drinking. A familiar warmth washed over his body as the night drew on and the bottles of wine quickly ran out.

He did end up sinking into a rhythm and cautiously enjoying himself by the end of the evening, but this state of mind was most definitely alcohol induced. After all, it certainly wasn’t because of the company he was keeping, and the evening’s entertainment was quite boring. At the very least, Felice had managed to get some information out of it; he’d learned a lot about what these men thought of their bosses (and pretty much everyone else in the city). The poor, reserved, lightweight politicians who tried to keep up with the Italian drink-for-drink soon struggled to see straight and stand on their feet, let alone filter their thoughts and conversations.

This wasn’t Felice’s first time drinking strangers under the table; as an alcoholic, he was quite familiar with his limits and when his decisions were becoming impaired. Not to mention, he had a few tricks to keep him from getting drunk when he didn’t want to be. He didn’t need to be the one saying anything stupid his first day on the job, so he managed his drinking accordingly. The other politicians he was with, however, did not.

By the time he got back to his hotel room, it was 00:30, and he was only mildly tipsy. If he were back home in Florence or on vacation in Milan, he might wander the city for a while longer. Felice was a politician, sure, but a hedonist, first and foremost; he wouldn’t have minded if someone had wanted to get drunk with him, or if a pretty woman had wanted to go to bed with him.

But this was Munich. Things were different here. Things were different now.

He undressed, flinging his clothing onto the armchair and sprawling out on the bed. Felice rolled over onto his side, ready to sleep, until he noticed it on the nightstand—a plain, white envelope.

How unusual. He wasn’t expecting a letter. He sat up and held it gingerly. It appeared as if this particular letter had been chasing him for quite some time. It was addressed to his former residence in Italy and was rerouted to his current hotel, and it was sent from Bayeux, France.

He ripped it open instantly, recognizing the return address, and his eyes poured over the short, but surprisingly powerful, message:

 

_Ciao._

 

_I hope this letter finds you well enough._

 

_Father is dead. His funeral is on 28 October. Come if you must._

 

_— Lorenzo_

 

Felice didn’t believe it, at first. This wasn’t real. His father was safe, last he heard. His half-brother hadn’t corresponded with him in over a year. This couldn’t have been real.

And yet, the letter was there, in his hands. It was Lorenzo’s handwriting, no doubt about it. No one else had that shitty, slanted scribble. No one else could shatter his entire world in less than five words. It was real, it had to be.

Felice felt the tears welling up in his eyes. They stung, they itched, they burned, they slid down his cheeks and onto the paper.

He crumpled up the letter. It didn’t help very much.

He threw it against the wall. It tumbled to the ground uselessly.

He dug his fingers into the bed sheet. He ground his teeth together, he clenched his jaw. But the tears still came. They still fell—gently, quietly—down his face.

He allowed himself one inhale. One sobbing breath.

And that was that.

He shut out the light, lay down, and tried to sleep. The darkness surrounded him.

It was one of the longest nights that he’d ever had.

 

He slept in too late. When he woke up, Felice found his alarm clock under a pillow all the way across the room. It read 11:07.

Well, so much for starting off on the proper foot.

Rushing to get ready, he decided to postpone the long-overdue wash for yet another day. Besides, it was stormy out, even more so than yesterday, and there was no point in washing if it was going to rain.

He left the hotel, but not before impulsively grabbing the crumpled up note and shoving it into his coat pocket.

Outside the consulate, Felice prayed for a peaceful morning and walked in the front entrance. It was as empty as it has been when it was closed the day before. The two other men who worked there were most likely either on lunch break or subdued by his own paperwork. He went to his office.

It was empty. He wasn’t entirely sure why he anticipated anything otherwise. Part of him had expected the old consul general to be sitting at the desk—to look at him over the rim of his spectacles and say, “You aren’t needed anymore. Go back home.”

He would have returned home, if only he could.

Felice felt, all of a sudden, as if he might throw up. He was in no mental state for working; he was too distracted, too afraid, too worried, too frustrated, too hungry. By the time his mind caught up with his feet, he’d already abandoned his work and was walking across the back field to the wooden fence.

The sky was tumultuous. Yesterday’s storm continued to growl and brew overhead. It seemed as if it was going to start pouring at any moment. He was unprepared for the storm overhead, the storm in his stomach, and the storm in his mind. Hunger and a hangover were two dangerous things, and when paired with death and a downpour, were arguably even worse.

He arrived to the spot where he’d last seen Ludwig. The fence had broken a bit when he had fallen the day before; it had buckled under his weight, apparently. The wildflowers seemed to grow more plentifully here, in shades of white and purple and yellow. From here, with the consulate behind him, it was as if there were no world other than this field, this fence, those flowers, that well. He turned around and sat down on the grass, his back against a sturdy post. His fingers wrapped around the crumpled letter in his pocket, and his thoughts shifted to the matter at hand.

28 October. It was soon. Three weeks from today, to be exact. Felice’s immediate answer was no—of course he wouldn’t be going. Why would he? Why _should_ he? It was just a funeral. His father was already dead. There was no way to change that. A funeral was a waste of money, especially during a war. Grief was not intended to be a social event. He would remember his father in his own way, whenever he had the time to do it.

Besides, the effort that it would take to travel to Bayeux wasn’t worth it. In the more political terms of cost-benefit analysis, it was lots of work for minimal gratification. And the last thing Felice wanted was to see his half-brother. Their history was complicated, to say the absolute least, and they weren’t exactly on speaking terms anymore.

But even so… Why did he feel so much trepidation about his decision? Why was he hesitating, vacillating? Was it because he cared deeply about his father? Was it fate telling him to let bygones be bygones with his brother?

He removed the letter from his pocket, uncrumpling it and reading it. And reading it again. And reading it again.

28 October _._ It was soon.

Would he go?

He heard heavy footsteps behind him.

Felice spun around, eyes wide and wild. The soldier’s hands were extended in the air, a gesture of peace, and he wore a calm expression. It was just Ludwig. He let out a sigh of relief—but it came out as a strangled sob. In shock, his hand flew to cover his mouth. His cheeks were wet with tears that he hadn’t realized were there.

Ludwig did not acknowledge the consul’s emotional status. Instead, he said, “You’re early.”

Felice’s hands slowly fell back to his lap. He glanced at his watch. It was only 11:39. “So are you.”

“Not for Germans. This is on time. If I had arrived at twelve on the dot, I would have been late.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. It’s strange.”

“It’s normal here.” Ludwig paused for a brief moment before continuing. “But this is early for Italians, is it not?”

“I needed to clear my mind.”

Thunder rolled and roared above them. The soldier examined Felice’s face cautiously. “Would you like to talk about it?”

He shook his head and turned away from the soldier. The tears kept going. A minute passed, and then the world seemed to tremble. The consul glanced over his shoulder and saw Ludwig climbing over the fence. He took a seat beside Felice, and they looked out at the field.

The consulate and the rest of the city looked like boxes on the horizon—boxes and nothing more. A bunch of ornate, cardboard boxes that would become weaker when the storm came, until they just melted and floated away.

The world was calm; it was waiting patiently for the rain. Bees danced to and fro frantically, as if they could sense the impending disaster on its way. They could fly back to their homes to escape the storm. Felice couldn’t. The storm would come, and he would be shackled in place, soaking wet, afraid, and unable to run away. Not literally, of course. He was thinking in extended metaphors. But he’d much rather be physically soaking and physically shackled than the metaphysical crisis he was currently in.

It started to drizzle. Ludwig’s gaze heated the back of his neck, the tips of his ears, the skin on his cheeks. Felice wiped his eyes dry. He tried to convince himself that his wet face and his wet fingers were only because of the rain.

“Do you mind the weather?” The soldier stared into the sky, his eyes a vibrant contrast to the grey that surrounded them.

“It’s… Alright. It reminds me of Venice.” He sniffled. He must have been catching a cold.

“Are you from Venice?”

“No, I am from Florence. But I spent many holidays in Venice with my mother. It always rains there.”

“I see.”

The consul toyed with the crumpled paper between his fingers. If Ludwig had taken notice of the scrap, he concealed his interest well. They watched the ballet of bees unfold before them.

“Are you from Munich?” Felice asked.

“I am from a small town a hundred kilometers to the north of here.”

“Do you like Munich?”

Ludwig hesitated. Felice could feel him stiffen, but with his eyes glued to the wildflowers, the soldier said quietly, “No.”

“Do you like Berlin?”

“A bit more than Munich.”

“But still no?”

“But still no.”

Felice now fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. “It seems like you aren’t fond of big cities.”

“That is correct.”

“Why not?”

Ludwig noticeably struggled to find a satisfactory answer, as he so frequently seemed to do while speaking to Felice. After a moment, he found something to his liking. “I lived in a town of three hundred people until the war broke out. Munich has much more than three hundred thousand inhabitants. I… I prefer a smaller, simpler home.”

He found every bit of information about the mysterious soldier to be a small piece of one large puzzle. Bit by bit, he began to understand Ludwig—even if it was only a vague comprehension based on assumption and guesswork. This was one puzzle that Felice didn’t mind putting some effort into solving; as a matter of fact, he rather enjoyed it.

At the very least, Felice had found someone to talk to for a while. He felt as if he could say anything to this man without repercussion. That, of course, was not true, and he knew it well. But here, in their little corner of the world, Felice felt as if Ludwig was the kindest man alive. And he needed a kindly soul in his life now more than ever.

Reluctantly, he uncrumpled the letter. He watched Ludwig out of the corner of his eye, but still, the soldier maintained complete stoicism; it elicited no reaction from him whatsoever. If the situation had been reversed, Felice would have been dying to know what was in that damn letter. But Ludwig said nothing.

The consul found himself choking on the words that left his mouth. The raindrops had found their way into his eyes, and his words were like thunder. He swallowed hard, forcing the storm into the distance, and stated in a quiet voice, “It’s a letter from my brother. My father has died.”

And then the storm surged. Raindrops and teardrops stained the crumpled correspondence. The world around him, in that instant, was silent and afraid—but hopeful nonetheless—and it drove Felice mad. He brought his hands to cradle his aching head; he gasped for air and continuing in desperation, “I have not seen either of them in years. I don’t know how he died. My brother and I despise each other, but—no, _half_ . Half-brother. He is no brother of mine, not anymore. Our father is dead, but I… I have a chance to see them again, _but I…_ ”

He wasn’t entirely sure whether or not those lasts words were spoken. But regardless, he felt completely and absolutely pathetic. There he was, crying. There he was, feeling sad. It was _disgusting_. It went against every one of his morals, showing this much weakness to a stranger, and yet—there he was.

Once it started, the storm refused to end. He cried—not sobbed, he made damn sure of that—he cried for what was, what had been, what could have been, what could never be—he cried for all of the people he’d abused and degraded and injured in the game of politics—he cried for this whole goddamn war—all of the people that starved, and froze, and bled—he cried for absolutely all of it.

He cried for Ludwig’s reluctance to console him, even though he didn’t want the soldier’s pity. He cried for the fact that he lived in a world where it was unacceptable for a man to emote the way he was doing now.

But despite all he cried for, it meant _nothing_. The world only knew what was spoken, not what was cried about. The world would never know.

The storm in his mind passed as quickly as it came, and the world calmed once more. Thunder rolled overhead. The real storm hadn’t even truly begun.

He rubbed his eyes dry and glanced at Ludwig. The soldier said nothing. Felice’s stomach suddenly turned. Had he been too quick to judge this man? Had he misread Ludwig’s personality? Had he seen something that wasn’t actually there? Had he made a horrible mistake?

The doubts were easily raised in that moment of silence but also easily quelled by a few words from the soldier. “Felice, I don’t know you very well. But what I do know is that you have just received terrible news. Crying is acceptable.”

“Crying is weak,” Felice bitterly retorted.

“Crying is human.” Ludwig said it firmly, as if there would be no further discussion. It left a strange dent in the conversation, but he continued. “Crying means you still care. And in a world where so few people do care… Listen, please. Don’t listen to what anyone else calls it. I’m calling it acceptable.”

Felice wanted to keep talking, but a surge of sudden anger burned in him. He was furious that this whole situation was happening; he felt like going back inside the consulate and ending the conversation. He turned to glare at Ludwig—whose expression melted his resentment instantly. In it he found the genuine concern of another human being, one soul caring about another. He found, just from an expression, someone who could have been a friend.

“Felice, I mean it. It’s alright.”

The consul focused his gaze on the letter, still clenched tightly in his hand. He couldn’t stand to look at Ludwig anymore. He didn’t deserve that much kindness. “I’m surprised that you feel that way. You are a military officer, after all.”

“That means nothing. I see men to their graves, Felice, and what scares me is that so many of them are scared to cry. They’re bleeding to death and biting on their lips so that they bleed even more, just so that they won’t cry. I’ve seen men on their deathbeds refuse to cry, insisting on protecting their honor and the good name of Germany.”

“All good men.”

“That is not the point, Felice, they were all good men who _should have cried_. It’s scarier than any bomb or tank in the world. It’s grown men, throwing their lives away, and not giving a damn.”

The scene Ludwig painted was indeed sickening, but despite it all, Felice chuckled bitterly. He’d heard that phrase too often to take it seriously anymore.

Ludwig’s expression was pained. “Do you not understand what I’m saying? What’s so funny about it?”

“ _Me ne frego_.” He brought his gaze to Ludwig once more, having a hard time pushing away the fog covering his thoughts.

“Pardon me?”

“ _Me ne frego._ It means ‘I don’t give a damn.’ It—It’s something that they say a lot.”

“They?”

His heart skipped a beat. The world stopped, suddenly cold and frozen. He struggled to speak normally. “We—We, we. I meant to say we. _We._ ”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand. Who are they—or, we?”

Felice exhaled. Ludwig hadn’t noticed his slip. The world began to move once more.  “Oh. I misunderstood. It’s… Italian fascists. It’s the phrase that _we_ say a lot. We don’t give a damn, just like those men.”

“Wait a moment. You mean to say that—even if you wanted to—just because the Italian fascists say that you can’t _care—_ ”

“I follow orders,” he said tersely.

Ludwig’s voice rose in intensity. “It’s an impossible order to tell someone they can’t be human.”

Felice’s rose to match it. “It’s not our place to question orders, Ludwig, you should understand that better than anyone.”

He was clearly frustrated by this point and began to angrily explain himself, but it didn’t seem unusual on Ludwig’s face, like sympathy had seemed; this seemed more natural, as if he did it regularly. “Of course I understand. My country comes before anything else, and everyone will tell you how true it is. No one has ever accused me of insubordination, and I will never give them a reason to. I execute the orders I’m given. But—I have a brain, Felice. I am not stupid, and—”

“Are you saying that your superiors don’t have brains?”

“No, dammit, that isn’t what I said! Listen to what I’m saying! Not every order comes from someone who realizes how many men it will sacrifice, or how many lives it will save if it is changed slightly—”

“If it is changed slightly, it is not the original order, and by definition, it is insubordination.”

“Is it not our place to _think_?”

“ _Not if we’re ordered otherwise!”_ Felice glared at the other, a strange electricity in his eyes and in his veins. He trembled with every breath he took, and he cast his own sort of spell over Ludwig, who was noticeably startled by the outburst. Now that he had the other’s undivided attention, he calmed down and quieted his voice. “Men like us follow orders, or we die, Ludwig. There is no thinking involved in it.”

The soldier broke the tense eye contact between them. The calmness of the world and the weather began to slowly wash over them both. A minute of silence passed them by.

“Ludwig, I—”

“There is no need to explain yourself. You are right, I suppose.”

“No, I wasn’t going to—I was only going to ask… _Why?_ Why do you think like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like— _that._ You think as if…” Felice hesitated, mainly because he was having a difficult time expressing a difficult concept in a difficult language.

“As if?”

“Well, first, you think, which is a very dangerous thing to do. But… You think as if men like us have a choice in what we do. As if our voices could possibly change anything. But our voices are worthless. And so are our lives. We are one in a world of millions. If we take one step out of line, we’ll be killed—or worse.” The words he spoke came out too harsh and too cold. They tumbled from his lips, frozen, hard, and sharp. Ludwig looked away from Felice and bit down on his lip. After a moment, his expression shifted, and an idea seemed to pop into his mind.

“Perhaps,” the soldier said cautiously, “we could start over.”

Felice stared blankly at Ludwig. “I don’t understand. What?”

“Let’s forget what we were just speaking about. Let’s do something else.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“A game, if you will. I have some questions for you. You doubtless have questions for me. We will take turns, it will be easy.”

The consul looked at Ludwig with scrutiny. “Is this a trick of some kind?”

“By no means. I just want to ask you some questions, and I want to give you a chance to ask me some as well.”

Reluctantly, Felice consented. “Well… You start.”

“Alright.” He stared at the storm cloud overhead, as if for inspiration or strength (or perhaps both) and asked, “Are you a religious man, Felice?”

“Wait, does this have to do with—all that?”

“I already said that it didn’t have anything to do with it. What is your answer?”

He shrugged. “I’m Catholic.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Are you a religious man?”

“I pray every night. I go to church every Sunday.”

“No, that is not what I’m asking either.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Ludwig paused, but upon looking into the other’s eyes, spoke concisely and deliberately. “Do you believe that there is a God, Felice?”  
He blinked in shock, and for the first time in a while, Felice found himself at a true loss for words. “What?”

“Please, think about it well.”

“Why—of _course_! How could you ask such a thing?! Of course there—well…”

“There. You hesitated.”

He nodded, frowned as if he didn’t comprehend his own reluctance, and repeated, “I hesitated.”

“Why?”

“I… I don’t… Ludwig, you shouldn’t—”

“I know I shouldn’t. That is why I must.”

“God is real.”

“Give me your honest answer.” Ludwig faced the consul and gave him a look that held a sense of burning urgency. “Please, forgive my bluntness, and let me know if I’m wrong, but you aren’t like all the other men who pass through the consulates. I can see that much already. They would never bother themselves to speak with a soldier like me. So there has to be something—something _more_ you think about, isn’t there?”

Felice looked at him frantically, desperately, and as hard as he searched, he found nothing malicious, nothing spiteful. But this had happened before: he hadn’t seen the bad in others, and he had been deceived by them, and he had promised that he’d never trust the “selfless well-intent” of others ever again. What was he to do? What else _could_ he do? He let his eyelids fall shut for a moment, and there was a nervous hesitation, before he said, “Of course, I believe that there is a God. But… This—this war, He… I don’t under _stand_ …”

“How He could allow it.”

“Exactly—we did nothing to provoke Him. I don’t see how He can sit back and watch it all play out.” Felice gestured frantically to the whole world around them. “Like some horrible game of chess.” He shook his head in dismay. “Maybe this is what happens when He decides not to answer prayers, or when He decides to not interfere with mankind.” His gaze fell neatly to his hands once more. “I—I try not to think about it too much.”

“I can see why. It is a very heavy subject. But it is something that needs to be thought about, at least a little bit, right?”

“I guess that you’re right.”

“It’s your turn now.”

“What?”

“To ask a question.”

“Oh.”

“To your satisfaction.”

“Right, right. Uh… Are _you_ a religious man?”

“Before the war, I suppose I was. But now… I guess that I am like you. I believe in Him, I am just wondering what His plan is. Why would He create this sort of world for His children?” Ludwig ran a hand over his stiff hair. “But this discussion isn’t one has with most people, naturally. Especially not now.”

“Naturally.”  
  
“My turn. Are you more willing to talk about your half-brother or your father?”

He immediately stiffened and turned away from Ludwig. The letter in his hands suddenly burned the skin of his palms. He stared straight ahead at the clumps of wildflowers. “Neither.”

“That wasn’t one of the options.”

“ _Neither_.”

“Felice—”

“No! I do not want to talk about them. Do not ask any more.”

Ludwig appeared as if he wanted to press further, but once again, his remarkable self-control proved to be more powerful than his curiosity. It impressed Felice, but less so in that moment because of his frustration. Instead of pressing further, the soldier plucked a blade of grass and twirled it in his fingers. It looked bizarre in his hands—those hands that killed and commanded troops. “Alright. Your turn, then.”

“Your last name?”

“Baumann. Yours?”

“Esposito.”

Recognition was the last expression he expected Ludwig to have at the sound of his surname, but there it was, painted plainly on his face for a second before fading away. Felice seized the opportunity. “You have heard it before?”

“No.” And yet, something was clearly troubling him. Before the consul could say any more, the soldier moved on. “My turn. How did you get interested in politics?”

Felice had little choice but to let the subject drop for now. After giving Ludwig a strange look, he replied, “It’s hardly an interest. I just have a good understanding of politics and a good mouth to defend an argument. When physical labor isn’t your strong suit, you find other ways to help your country. The army wasn’t—well, let’s say that I was not made for it. I ran for local office, and then years of boring politics followed until I came here. And now, I am the consul general in Munich.”

“Your turn.”

“How did you get involved in the military?”

“My father fought in the Great War. My older brother joined the army, and I followed him and the rest of my country, and I will follow them to the end. Now it’s my turn. Is your half-brother in the military?”

“Ludwig, I said—”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

Reluctantly and carefully, Felice said, “No, my half-brother never fought in the Italian military. It’s my turn, right? Tell me about your brother.”

“That isn’t a question.”

He fixed the intonation of the phrase so that the end tilted upwards dramatically. “Tell me about your brother?”

Ludwig laughed—it was energetic and bright; it was a welcome, rare sound; it made Felice’s pulse quicken—and said, “His name is Gilbert. He is a captain in the _SS-Totenkopfverbände._ ”

Felice’s eyes lit up, not with excitement, not with fear, but a mixture of the two. He spoke slowly. “I see.”

“He travels around the front a lot, but he’s stationed in Berlin. He tells me that he will be visiting Munich soon.”

“I see,” he repeated.

“He’s the best man I know.”

“I _see_.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No. It’s your turn.”

“That does not count as my question, right?”

“No, that would be unfair.”

“I agree. Tell me about your half-bro—”

“I said _no_.”

“Feli—”

“ _Now_ your turn is over.” Felice didn’t hesitate before he asked flatly, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

He gave Felice a hard look. Ludwig didn’t appear to be startled by the sudden heavy question; he only looked saddened. The silences that they shared were becoming more and more familiar, less and less awkward, and more and more frequent. Ludwig exhaled and nodded reluctantly. It was answer and explanation enough. “Have you?”

“No. I… I don’t think that I could.”

“Neither did I.”

The rain was falling noticeably now. Felice removed his coat and placed it over his head like an umbrella. Ludwig followed his lead. The bees had flown away, and in their place, crickets and frogs began to sing their opera. Neither man wished to break the new silence that had fallen, and yet both were eager to ask questions and learn about the other. The consul was about to speak, his curiosity dominating his desire to keep the peace, but his stomach beat him to it. A smile grew on Ludwig’s lips. “Are you hungry?”

He glanced at his watch. “Yes. I didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Perfect timing. I was going to suggest that we get something to eat. We have some time—I could show you around Munich, if you’d like.”

For the first time since he’d arrived in Germany, a genuine grin—reluctant, weak, but extant nonetheless—tugged at the corners of his lips. “I can’t imagine anything else that I would rather do.”

 

For someone who wasn’t fond of big cities, Ludwig knew the streets of Munich like the back of his hand. They wandered for a while, two unlikely friends in a somber, sleepy city, the rain drenching them both. The flagstones squished and squelched beneath their shoes, and their voices raced down the lonely alleyways. Every so often, a trolley packed full of people rolled past them. There was hardly anyone walking on the streets, and with this weather and time of day, Felice didn’t blame them for staying inside. Everyone was busy working or pretending to work.

It took a solid twenty minutes of idle walking and idle chattering before the soldier pointed to a dead building, much like any other in the city.

The sugar of the moment was still flowing through Felice’s veins, and so a weak smile still lived on his lips. He squinted in the direction that Ludwig gestured in and chuckled a bit. “We walked twenty minutes in the rain for _this_?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

He shook his head, at a loss for a witty comment, and they walked into the building together just as it began to pour.

 

The place—a pub, as it turned out—was quaint, dimly lit, and familiar. It looked as if it had been run by the same family for decades. The blackout curtains were closed, like the owner never bothered himself with the task of opening them during the day. It did, however, add to the intimate mood of the establishment. The radio played softly from the bar, and the rain tapped on the roof. Thunder began to roll, but in a way that told Felice the heart of the storm was not yet overhead. They hung their dripping coats near the entrance, and Ludwig led them to a booth in the back. Nearly every table was taken, but it was not busy, nor was it loud. Everyone appeared to be tired. Felice expressed this observation to Ludwig as they sat down, and the soldier looked around, as if it was the first time he had noticed.

“You’re right. Everyone _is_ tired. This is a very tired city, if that makes any sense.”

“I understand. It is also a very tiring war.”

“Fair point.” He shrugged and offered a half-hearted grin. “Maybe if we all just went to bed for a while, none of this would be happening now. Maybe if everyone just slept at the same time, we would wake up, and the war would be over.”

A man quickly came to the table. Ludwig conversed with him for a moment in German, and then turned to Felice. “What do you want to eat?”

“I have no idea. Whatever you will have, I guess.”

Ludwig ordered, and the man scurried off. The building seemed to breathe with the wind—inhaling, exhaling—creaky, heavy, troubled breathing. The consul looked to the ceiling. The electric light above them flickered. “It certainly isn’t fine dining…”

“No, by no means. Maybe, as a politician, you are used to eating in much nicer restaurants. But the average person cannot afford to buy themselves food or clothing right now, let alone eat at fancy places like those. Here, in this place, are mostly the people who have a mark or two to spare. The food here is good, but more importantly, it’s affordable.”

Felice swept his eyes over the establishment once more, this time with a new perspective and appreciation. Although everyone had it difficult these days, he had worked hard so that he would at least never starve. It nearly impossible for him to think that some of these people, sitting calmly and civilly around him, might not have eaten in a day or two. “They are all civilians?”

Ludwig looked around and shook his head. “Some of them, not all. But I do recognize many of the people here. Some of them are soldiers. Not my men, necessarily, but still soldiers.”

A momentary silence. Felice traced circles patiently on the table, once more unable to find anything to say. The one thing the consul could always rely on was his ability to spark a conversation, and now that it had abandoned him temporarily, he felt empty. Eventually, he decided to revert back to what had been the easiest conversation starter. “It’s my turn.”

An uncontrollable grin broke out on Ludwig’s lips. “Ah. So it seems. Go ahead.”

“What do you do in your spare time?”

“What spare time?”

“Fair enough,” Felice said. He leaned back, looking intensely across the table at Ludwig. “If I gave you one day—no work, no war, _nothing_. What would you do with it?”

“Hm…” The soldier took his time thinking before he offered an answer. “I would spend it with my family, most likely. My brother and grandfather. And my dogs, Berlitz and Aster.”

“You like dogs?”

“I love dogs,” Ludwig said. He did so with the utmost seriousness. Felice couldn’t tell whether or not that was a poorly-executed joke. He decided to change the subject.

“What else would you do?”

He thought for a while longer. “I would probably spend a day like that relaxing. Heaven knows we don’t do it enough these days. Maybe go for a walk, read a book… Or, eh…” Ludwig appeared as if he had an idea but was reluctant to say it.

Felice urged him to speak. The soldier reluctantly complied. “I might—bake a bit… If I had nothing else to do.”

The consul found himself laughing. He hadn’t meant to, and by no means was it out of cynicism or spite, but sheer joy. Ludwig was a captain, emasculate, the absolute paragon of a perfect soldier—but he liked to _bake_. Ludwig, the man who had scared the absolute shit out of him not even twenty-four hours ago! Felice felt as if being stationed in Munich wasn’t the worst thing in the world after all.

Ludwig, of course, was confused and slightly offended. Once Felice choked down the giggles, he explained, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, don’t look at me like that. I think that it’s fantastic that you like baking. Really! I love cooking myself, but—it’s not something that I expected from someone… Like you.”

Once the soldier understood that his trust in Felice was well founded, he relaxed noticeably. It was as if every other time the consul had seen him, Ludwig was holding his breath, but now, he seemed as if he was breathing calmly, relaxedly. The smile on his lips was easier and gentler. “I can understand why you might think that. Do you like cooking?”

“Oh, yes, I like it a lot. It’s very hard to be Italian and to not like eating and cooking. What is your favorite thing to bake?”

“ _Spitzbuben_ . Or _Baumkuchen_.”

“They both sound good! But if we’re being honest—I have no idea what those are. You’ll have to forgive me, I haven’t studied German pastries since university in 1936.”

They both laughed. Any tensions that remained dissipated over the mutual love of food. Ludwig said, “It’s quite alright, Felice. _Spitzbuben_ are little jam cookies. We usually eat them for Christmas. And _Baumkuchen_ is—ah, it’s like cake, but kind of different. It looks like a sponge.”

“Hm. Maybe they are like _occhi di bue_ and _pandoro?_ Jam cookies and—cake that is different. And looks like a sponge.”

“It’s possible that they are similar. Oh, talking about desserts makes me want to eat some right now… It’s a shame that we’re rationing nearly everything.”  
Felice shrugged and folded his hands behind his head. “I agree. But there is a certain time for desserts, and that time is not in the middle of a war, according to the powers that be.”

“The powers that be should relax and let me bake _Baumkuchen.”_

The consul laughed. The sound of it floating through the air still surprised him; it hadn’t seemed to come from his mouth at all. Maybe he imagined it, but maybe not—the soldier had laughed as well.

“What do you like to cook, Felice?”

“Hm… I don’t think I can pick! I like to cook food that makes people happy, whatever they want to eat. I like to cook practically anything.”

“Perhaps you’d cook for me some time. I have never had Italian food.”

“It’d be my pleasure.” Something fluttered in Felice’s chest—a sensation he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. It was warm, gentle, and pleasant, and yet, it was foreign and unusual to the man that he had become. In his youth, this feeling would have been normal, but now, it was uncommon—not unwelcome, necessarily, just unfamiliar. He coughed suddenly, wiping the smile from his face, and stared at his lap uncomfortably.

Ludwig’s smile faded, and he asked, “Is something the matter?”

The consul bit down on his lip, struggling to find the right thing to say, praying that something, _something_ would intervene and save him from his embarrassment and confusion. He said quietly, “Nothing that I can put into words. I’m sorry.”

“I see.”

They waited in silence for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the struggling radio, the rain falling on the roof, the idle chatter of the bar. Felice hated how his disposition could change as rapidly as the tides. He absolutely des _pised_ it. He hated how he could be enjoying himself, and then so quickly sabotage his own happiness in pursuit of some unknown, obscure goal. How could he possibly express that sort of psychoanalysis to Ludwig—not to mention, in English, a language that was already a large effort for both of them to speak and understand? How could he possibly tell Ludwig an entire lifetime of fighting and loving, of laughter and tears, of struggle and triumph, that led him to how he was feeling in that moment? He couldn’t. It wouldn’t come out the way he wanted it to, and it would be better left unsaid. Felice was not going to bother trying if he would inevitably fail.

The food arrived. Ludwig thanked the waiter, but they both hesitated to touch their plates. There was an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air around them—not really the ideal environment for eating in. Felice was deep in thought, and across the table, the soldier appeared as if he was hesitant, but hopeful. He decided to ask a question. “Do you trust me?”

The question caught the consul off guard, and it was obvious. Ludwig backpedaled nervously—“My apologies. I know we just met, but I was—just curious… You don’t have to answer, please, don’t feel pressured to—”

“I believe that it was your turn.”  
  
“Oh. So, then…?”

Felice was reluctant to answer, but the other didn’t seem to take umbrage over it. He must have understood how difficult it was to trust people in the world that they lived in. And for some inexplicable reason, the Italian found himself going against everything he’d ever learned or been taught. He replied, “I suppose so. As much as one can trust a stranger. Perhaps a bit more.”

“I see.”

“Do you trust me?”

Ludwig, much to Felice’s surprise, answered without a moment of thought. “Yes.”

He blinked and gave the soldier a hard look. “You trust too easily.”

A shrug, and a smile filled with nervous energy—the smile of one who was doing something he had never done before. “Maybe I do. Is it ill founded?”

“No. But I haven’t decided yet if this makes you a kind person or just an idiot.”

“Who is to say that I’m not both?”

And out of all the things in the world to make Felice truly smile, for whatever reason, that was it. His grin was brilliant; it was rusty, but it, and that strange laugh of his, brightened up the room. Ludwig found himself smiling alongside him, and together, they ate. The rain came down; their laughter floated about. The radio in the background, unheard to both, told of Resistance fighters, recently apprehended and to be hanged in the days to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> _Me ne frego_ \- Italian. Popular phrase amongst fascists. Lit. “I don’t give a damn.” There’s also a fun little fascist diddy called "Me ne frego". But, I mean, if you read the story, Felice explained it all, so this translation isn’t really necessary.
> 
>  _SS-Totenkopfverbände_ \- German. Also known as the SS-TV (or in English as Death’s Head Units), this was the branch of the Schutzstaffel responsible for “administering the Nazi concentration camps”.


End file.
